


I'm Starving For Your Skin

by ScottieisStressed (TeheheHoran)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blackwatch, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Canon-Typical Violence, Coded FTM Reader, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, How McCree Lost His Arm, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Permanent Injury, Touch-Starved, Watchpoint: Gibraltar (Overwatch), but that's for later, for now, male reader - Freeform, there are a few masc words but thats it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28849764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeheheHoran/pseuds/ScottieisStressed
Summary: Your job as a Pro-Boy for Overwatch was an interesting one. Comfort the most dangerous people on the planet and show them that touch didn't have to mean pain. Your next assignment is with Blackwatch, but a mission goes FUBAR and leaves one member with a missing arm. How do you comfort a man who's just lost everything?
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Reader, Jesse mccree/male reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	1. How To Set A Broken Nose

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhh hi. To all my stucky readers, don't look at me I'm having a moment. To my Overwatch stans, hi. This is not canon-compliant, nor does it follow the correct timeline. Whoever I want is here and things exist for the sake of the plot. I just think Jesse Mccree is hot and deserves some love.

Your job as a Pro-Boy for Overwatch was an interesting one. You had heard all the criticisms before, the rude names. Whore, escort, sex doll, slut. But you weren’t there for sex, you were like the human version of Comfort-Omnics or Nanny-Omnics. Sure, some people in your profession  _ did _ have sex with their charges, but it was always consensual and initiated by the Pro. Pros were the government’s solution to stress relief for those who worked high-stress jobs or saw combat. Pros were considered military and treated with the utmost respect...most of the time. The public tended to see you all as “military-funded prostitutes”, but that wasn’t true at all. You were a confidant, a friend, a therapist, and most importantly, a source of a kind touch. 

You and two other Pros were assigned to Overwatch and Blackwatch respectively, rotating out every four months. The heroes of Overwatch saw combat constantly, practically all they knew was violence and fighting. You were there to show them the good in the world, the good in  _ people _ , show that interacting and touching others didn’t have to mean pain. Lord knows they’d seen plenty of that, like the broken nose you were currently watching Angela set on Lena’s nose. 

You winced at the sound of the crack, rushing to get tissues as more blood gushed from the Brit’s nose. Angela shook her head as she turned to grab the nose splint. “I told you to be more careful in close quarters when you time skip, this is why,” the blonde chided, tapping down the splint and fixing the other woman with a look.

The Brit rolled her eyes but immediately regretted that as she flinched at the movement. You laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she replied sarcastically, “Yes mum.”

Hiding a smile, you said to her, “c’mon, let’s go back to your room and watch that Beatles cartoon you like so much.” Lighting up at your statement, she zipped off the gurney and was at the medbay door before you could blink. 

“What are you waiting for slowpoke? Let’s get a move on!” She chirped excitedly, disappearing down the hall with a laugh. Sighing, you looked at Angela who just shook her head with a look of endearment. 

“Well, on Lena’s behalf, thank you, Dr. Ziegler. I’ll keep an eye on the swelling and send her back if I notice anything you warned about,” you said, throwing away the bloody tissues and heading towards the door. 

“Y/N, I’ve told you to call me Angela,” the doctor scolded, “but thank you, just make sure she ices it at least  _ some _ tonight.” Nodding an affirmative, you said goodbye and headed to Lena’s room. 

You liked Lena, sure she was high energy and a bit chaotic but she never let you get bored. She was definitely on your favorites list of all the heroes you had serviced. Hana was another peppy choice charge of yours. The two of you usually spent your required time playing video games with the occasional makeup application. Hana’s preferred touch was just sitting pressed together, or hands sat on other’s laps, a squeeze of the arm, and the occasional cuddle during a movie. Your favorite person to spend time with though was Ana, you loved spending hours sat at her feet on a plush cushion while she petted your head. Spending time with Ana felt like a vacation, and you often found yourself requesting her company even on your days off. 

Being a Pro-Boy, you worked in three-week shift rotations with six heroes. On A rotation you worked with three heroes, say Tracer, D.va, and Lucio. You serviced a hero for three days, had a day off, then moved to the next hero. You saw them just often and long enough for there to be a consistent and strong relationship between the two of you. Never gone long enough to miss something important or lose connection, and around often enough to get them to open up and trust without being overwhelmed. Every three weeks you switched to another group of three heroes (B rotation), before going back to A. This rotation happened roughly 6 times every four months. When your four months were up, you were typically moved to another location or got six new heroes. 

In the beginning, it was very overwhelming and so stressful you felt like  _ you _ needed a Pro. Luckily, you got the hang of things quickly and your first four months flew by, then you were transferred to Gibraltar, where you are now.  You’re almost at Lena’s room when you get an alert on your wrist communicator, it’s the assignment briefing for the next four months. Is it that time already? Yes, you only have two weeks left before this assignment ends, then you’re off to Blackwatch. Or at least that’s what you thought you were going to do. Blackwatch’s mission has gone FUBAR, extraction immediate for a return to base, this base. Your eyebrows raise as you see that you  _ will _ be with Blackwatch for the next four months, but here instead of out in the field or at their HQ. Something must have gone terribly wrong for this to happen, but that’s a worry for another day. Right now you have to go make sure Lena doesn’t Blink into another wall and break another bone. 


	2. Crack You Ribs, Let Me See Inside Your Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwatch returns from their mission.

The sounds of reverberating metal being pounded on wake you from your deep sleep. Checking the clock on your bedside, you groan at the time. 9 AM, on your day off too. Pounds from the door sound again, making you slowly swing your body out of bed. “Yeah, I’m up! Coming…” You trail off, shuffling across the chilled tiles to open the door. It hisses open to reveal the faces of Hana and Lena, the two look like they’re about to vibrate out of their skin. 

“What?” You ask groggily, rubbing a hand across your eyes. 

“They’re back,” Lena blurts, voice full of nerves. Your brows furrow.

“Who’s back?”

“The Blackwatch team, their Orca just docked in the hanger,” Hana practically gasps. “Come on, we have to go see them.” She reaches out and grabs your arm, starting to drag you out of the room. 

Digging your heels in, you stop her, “Hold on Hana, I’m not dressed. I can’t meet  _ Blackwatch _ in my pajamas.” The three of you look down to stare at your fleece sleep pants covered in little chibi D.Va’s. 

“Awe, you actually use them,” Lena coos, plucking at the fabric on your thigh. You cross your arms defensively.

“They’re warm,” you mumble, stepping back into your room and going to shut the door. 

“Dress sexy!” Hana calls before the door shuts in her face, you roll your eyes as you hear their footsteps echo down the corridor. 

“Dress sexy,” you mock as you go over to your wardrobe and look at all your options. You won’t lie, this is is definitely nerve-wracking. This Blackwatch, undercover black-ops team, total badasses. What does one even wear to such a meeting? You land on a standard outfit of mock-tac pants that are more for looks than actual function, and a snug muscle tank. Pulling on some boots, you let out a breath to steel your nerves and head out. 

Arriving at the hanger, you settle to stand in between Ana and Hana, the elder giving you a curt nod of approval. It seems you’ve made the right decision by showing up to the welcoming comity. The ramp to the Orca lowers slowly, and the gathered crowd look on with bated breath. As soon as it’s low enough to walk on, the chaos begins. An older man, Reyes, you remember, starts yelling, marching towards Angela with a hard look on his face. He’s followed by two others who hurriedly carry, oh, a gurney. Bodies quickly move to obscure the injured person, but not before you see the blood-soaked sheets. Ana stiffens next to you, an act that is so unlike her making your heart surge with worry. 

“Oh,” Hana whispers to your right, “McCree.” You look over to see her eyes wide and shining with tears. Well, time to do your job. You slip your hand into hers and give it a comforting squeeze. She looks are you, lips pressed into a tight line. 

“It’s ok, Dr. Ziegler will take good care of him. Everything’s ok Hana,” you say softly like you’re talking to a spooked animal. It’s moments like this when you remember just how young the hero is, practically a child, taking on the weight of the world. She sniffles and nods, pressing in close against your side and resting her head on your shoulder. You give her hand another squeeze as Ana clears her throat.

“I am going to see to him,” she declares, her light steps making little sound as she crosses the hanger to where Angela, Reyes, and Morrison are speaking in urgent but hushed tones. 

“McCree’s like her son,” Lucio says from where he’s stepped up to replace Ana, a frown gracing his usually pleased features. You hum, a frown forming on your own face. She never told you, not like you all talked much when you were together. Looking back over at the group, you notice the Pro-Girl that was assigned to them standing back and looking uncomfortable. The two of you make eye contact and you quirk a brow. She shakes her head slightly and mouths,  _ “Later.”  _ Nodding back you take a deep breath and address the assembled heroes. 

“Alright,” you say, “C’mon y’all, let’s head to the common lounge. We aren’t helping anyone just standing here.” 

“Y/N it’s your day off, you shouldn’t have to worry about us,” Lena says, crossing her arms and cocking a hip.

You shrug, “I know, but this is my job. I can’t just stand by and watch my people hurt if I can do something to help.” They look at you gratefully. “I’ll even make gooey butter cake,” you bargain. Hana’s eyes light up.

“That’s cheating,” Lucio argues but starts walking with you anyway, “you know we can’t resist your baking.”

“I know,” you say smugly, “that’s why I said it.” 

-

After you get everyone settled, you slip away to find the Pro-Girl, God, what was her name? 

“Y/N.” You turn quickly and see the Pro-Girl standing in an alcove, mostly obscured by shadow. 

“Hey,” you say moving over to her, brushing up against her as you slide into the alcove with her. 

“Freyja, I can tell you don’t remember,” she gestures to her face, “it’s on your face.”

“Right.” You say, blushing slightly.

She shrugs, “No hard feelings.” An awkward moment of silence passes between the two of you. You open your mouth but she cuts you off with a sigh, “Well, I guess you’re wondering what the hell happened.” You nod and keep your eyes on her face as it twists into a displeased sneer. “Don’t know how much I can help with that, I don’t know jack shit either. Those boys are a bunch of dickheads, didn’t even take me on the op,” she laughs humorlessly at the look on your face. “Yeah, said they didn’t need a civilian slowing them down and causing trouble, left me at the HQ. I was bored out of my mind the whole time, picked up some new hobbies though, made nice with the locals, improved my Italian.” She looks at you and you send a look that says  _ “hurry it up.” _

Shifting she leans against the wall more and starts speaking again. “Anyways, all I know is three days ago I got a message that the mission had gone to hell and they were waiting for extraction and that I was to randevu in Madrid. When I got on the Orca no one said shit, hardly even looked at me, which is fine because I don’t know if I want to talk to them ever again.”

“What happened to McCree?” You ask because  _ God can she get the point already?  _

“Oh right, I don’t know but he lost his arm.” You suck in a breath through your nose, hackles rising. “Yeah it’s a nasty looking thing, they tried to blood the bleeding but he’s like a stuck pig.” Freyja is apparently unaware of the look of disgust you’re giving her. Jesus, she’s talking about her charge like an animal at slaughter rather than a  _ person _ , someone that was just in a traumatic accident, and from the sounds of it, may not make it. “He passed out from fever and blood loss. Fucking sucks.”

You nod and try not to let your face show how upsetting this conversation is. “Right, well I’m just going to,” you start to walk away down the hall, “go.” She doesn’t pay you any mind, back to brooding in the shadows of the alcove. You start walking down a hall at random, just trying to get away from the queasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. Next time you contact your supervisor, you’re definitely going to recommend her for reassignment. 

Fidgeting with your wrist communicator, you don’t hear the approaching footsteps until a shadow casts itself on the ground by your feet. Looking up, you’re greeted by the grim face of Commander Morrison. “Oh,” You stand at attention out of the habit of copying the others, “Commander Morrison.” His face softens a bit.

“At ease soldier,” he teases, causing you to laugh a little and relax your shoulders. 

“Right, sorry,” you apologize, rubbing the back of your neck in slight embarrassment. “I um, wanted to ask about McCree? Is he going to be ok?” The older man gives a nod of affirmation and you sigh in relief.

“He’ll be just fine, Dr. Ziegler got him stable and closed the wound. He should be awake in about a week. We’ll fit him for a prosthetic but all our engineers are out at the moment,” the last comment makes him frown a little. “Other than that, he should make a full recovery, too damned stubborn to die anyway,” he grumbles. You nod and give him your thanks, heading down the hall again. You only make it a few feet before his voice stops you again. “L/N,” he calls, making you turn.

“Yes sir?”

“I had a word with Reyes, don’t let those punks treat you like shit,” his voice has a fatherly tone of protectiveness. 

You smile back to him, “Yes sir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is enjoyable so far. Please leave kudos or comments so I'm actually motivated to finish this jdjshfkjdj


	3. Cream And Sugar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this is a long one. Finally getting into the plot tho :)

The next two weeks pass without much fanfare, you get the news that McCree woke up and is on the road to recovery. You bake some small cookies, something small and manageable, perfect for one hand. You spend a lot more time with Ana, glad that she’s on your last rotation. You’d hate for her to be alone during a time like this, especially with what Lucio said about how close the two are. You don’t push her on it, never requesting information about him or their relationship, just there for silent support. 

When it does come time for your reassignment, Lena and Hana make it their duty to give you as dramatic a sendoff as possible. “We’re going to miss you so much!” Hana exclaims, burying her face in your chest and fake sniffling. You roll your eyes at their antics.

“You guys! I’m not going anywhere! I’ll still be on base, we can hang out on my off days if you’re that desperate to see me,” you argue, but pet Hana’s head fondly regardless. 

“We know love,” Lena says, draping over your back as she stands on her tiptoes, “we just like you is all. It’s like having a little brother.” You throw your head back and groan.

“I’m older than you! I’m 32!” You complain, shaking the Brit off your back.

Lena shrugs and Blinks across the room, grabbing one of the cupcakes the girls made you. “I know, but I was gone for a few years, and those years count,” she tells you, zipping back to you. Sadly she didn’t account for her speed or the wet frosting, which slides off the cupcake and splatters on the floor. “Oops.” Someone clears their throat, the three of you turn to the door to see Morrison and Reyes. 

Standing up straight and removing your arms from around Hana you address your superiors. “Commander Morrison, Commander Reyes, welcome back sir,” you say civilly, making to stand in relaxed parade rest. Reyes raises his brows at you.

“I see you got more formal training than our previous Pro,” he grumbles, looking at you hard.

“No sir, just picked it up from these two, sir,” you gesture to the girls who are hiding behind you slightly. 

“I see,” he says suspiciously, eyeing them over your shoulder. “I was just coming to give you your first assignment. I want you to spend the whole first week with McCree, keep an eye on him. We’ll talk more about your schedule later, but for now, McCree is your priority.”

You nod in confirmation, “Of course sir, understood.” He nods back to you before disappearing from the doorway.

“Well,” Morrison says, “that went better than I expected.”

-

You find him in the darkened kitchen. He sits slouched in a pulled out chair, half-empty tumbler gripped loosely in his only hand. The bottle of whiskey sits on the table next to him, cap off and nearing empty. You can see the bandages on his left arm in the dim light, but not much else. Leaning against the door frame you say to him, “I’m not sure Dr. Ziegler would approve of your choice of drink.” He doesn’t look up from his glass.

“What does Angela know, she didn’t lose her arm,” he replies gruffly, moving his hand to take another sip. 

“Fair enough,” you acknowledge, pushing off the door frame and moving into the room. You can sense his eyes tracking you under the brim of his hat as you grab another glass and bottle of liquid. Setting your own glass on the table, you close up the whiskey and gesture to his glass. “Give it here,” you gently command, pouring the liquid from your own bottle when he complies. The drink fizzes and settles in the glass with the whisky, color matching almost perfectly. He gives it a sniff.

“What is it?” 

“Ginger beer,” you answer as you pour your own glass, pulling out the chair across the table as to not crowd him. “All the burn of whiskey, just less likely to kill you.” He gives you a dubious look from his seat. “I’ve found,” you continue, “If I can have at least one of the sensations, it’s easier to loosen a vice. If I can light my throat on fire with liquid ginger, I don’t need to drink Fireball.” He doesn’t laugh at your joke. “And I bake, I get all those bad feelings and thoughts out into a cake or bread, then I cook it till it’s dead and gone in a 400-degree oven. Plus in the end, I get something nice to eat,” you shrug, taking a large sip of the ginger beer.

“Who the hell are you?” Comes the rasping question from your companion. 

You sit up a little straighter, “Pro-Boy Y/N L/N, at your service,” you recite before adding, “Agent McCree.” He grunts and takes a sip on his whiskey-ginger beer cocktail. 

“You my babysitter?” He asks, staring hard into your eyes. 

You cock your head slightly, “Could be. You going to give me a reason to be?”

That gets a small smile out of him. “No sir,” he says in a way that tells you that yes, he will be giving you a reason. The two of you sit in silence, taking sips of your drinks and staring at nothing. With a deep sigh, McCree sets his glass on the table and pushes himself up with his arm. He grunts slightly but doesn’t waver or sway. Not too drunk then. “‘M gonna turn in,” he declares without looking back at you and shuffling out of the room. You watch him go, listening to the soft jingle of his spurs fade away. Giving a sigh of your own, you gather up the glasses and head to the sink. You turn on the sink and slowly wash the glasses, mind elsewhere. 

Setting them to dry, you put away the whiskey and ginger beer, walking to the door and shutting it behind you. You’ll give McCree the night off, he doesn’t need you there hovering and making him uncomfortable. Turning towards the sleeping quarters you walk through the silent hall, no sound other than the pat of your feet on the floor. You arrive at your room, electing to keep the door open in case Mccree comes looking for you, though that seems unlikely as he didn’t know who you were. 

Getting settled quickly, you climb into bed and turn out your own lights before setting an alarm. The trailing lights that illuminate the darkened corridor’s flood cast soft shadows as they shine through the open doorway. You watch them as you fall asleep, and you could almost swear, as you closed your eyes, you saw a cowboy hat. 

-

You wake before your alarm, staring at the glowing numbers of your clock with stinging, tired eyes. Sleep evaded you last night, never resting for more than an hour before waking to toss and turn. You can already feel that your eyes are bloodshot, what a great first impression. First only because the kitchen was so dim you couldn’t make out the feature of McCree, and you doubt he could see you either.

Dressing, you go with an outfit that’s comfortable and casual, soft, inviting. Maybe if you look huggable McCree won’t punch you in the face. 

The mess hall is bustling when you enter, familiar faces bent over plates as they shovel food into their mouth. Lúcio waves from his table, beckoning you over with a tilt of his head. You wave back, but don’t move as you scan the rest of the room. McCree is nowhere to be seen. It’s not that surprising but you still frown. Spotting the man you saw bring McCree off the Orca, you make your way over hesitantly. As you approach the table he looks up, a faceplate mostly obscures his feature. 

“Agent Shimada,” you greet. He hums and tilts his head. You feel like a bug under a microscope.

“Genji is fine,” he utters mildly, “You are looking for Agent McCree,” he states.

“Yes sir, I was wondering if you may know his location since you all are teammates.” You shift your weight as he continues to stare you down. 

Turning back to the table he responds, “I believe you may find him on the shooting range, that is where he tends to retreat to when troubled.”

“Thank you, Agent,” you say, stepping back from the table slightly.

“Genji,” he reminds you, “and do bring him food. He does not care for himself adequately in times of duress.” 

You nod and turn towards the serving line, “Yes sir.” He doesn’t respond so you walk over to see what the selection is today. Eggs, oatmeal, waffles…..come on you need something simple. Something you can eat with one hand, not too messy. Your eyes land on the fruit, pastries, and pre-packaged yogurt. It’s not the most inspiring breakfast but it will have to do. After gathering enough for the two of you, you head over to the drink station. McCree seems like the kind of person to drink black coffee if he likes drinking whiskey. You consider the cream and sugar before stuffing a few in your pocket, just in case.

Exiting the mess hall, juggling your breakfast for two, you realize you have no idea where you’re going. You’ve never had use for the shooting range before, you don’t even know how to hold a gun, let alone shoot it. “Athena?” You ask, looking up at the ceiling.

“Yes Y/N?”

“Would you direct me to the shooting range please?” 

“I would be honored.”

You smile at her pleasant tone, “Thank you, Athena.”

“My pleasure Y/N, follow the illuminated lights on the floor if you would please.” Small lights on either side of the floor light up and blink like a runway. You follow them in silence, thankful for Athena’s directory, as you have never been to this side of the compound before. As you turn a corner and step outside, you can suddenly hear the loud pops and pings of a bullet hitting its target. 

“I think I have it from here Athena,” you say, following the sound to another door, they open in front of you and you step through. The room inside opens up to a long range that is mostly exposed to the elements. You and McCree stand under a large awning, lines painted on the floor at equal intervals. 

“Was wonderin’ when you’d show up,” McCree grumbles, sighing and lowering his gun. He turns to face you and you have to stop yourself from dropping all the food on the spot. Sucking in a breath, your eyes scan his face over and over, drinking in every detail. He’s young, younger than you thought. That or time has been very kind to him. But, there, shallow little lines that kiss the skin by his eyes. Different that the jagged chasm between Reyes’ brows or the waves of Morrison’s forehead. Both formidable men in their own right, hard and strong, but this one, these lines. This is a joyous and happy man. This man is sunkissed and kind, a child of the earth, nurtured in her love, created in her image. Straight, neck-length hair frames his strong jaw, pieces falling over his eyes and catching the morning light in a golden glow. His thick beard is immaculately shaped, nestled within it, a sweet and plump set of lips. The bottom one sticking out in a slight pout, perfect to nip and nibble, to-

Wait. Stop. 

You can’t think of him like this, he’s your charge. You absolutely cannot become attracted to him. Shaking your head to clear the thoughts from your head, you find your composure. “I brought breakfast,” you gesture to the food balanced in your arms, “and coffee, black. I didn’t know how you took it.”

He stares at the cup in your hand. “Black is fine.” He takes the cup from you after holstering his gun. He slowly sinks to the floor and sets the dainty styrofoam cup by his hip. You sit to his right, laying the food out between the two of you so he can reach it. You open your yogurt and go to take a bite but catch yourself. 

Shit, he can’t open it.

You sneak a peek at him to make sure he isn’t looking. “Oh damn,” you say, maybe a bit too loudly. He shoots you a curious look. “I uh, opened the wrong one. I don’t like this flavor,” it’s your favorite but he doesn’t need to know that. “Here,” you push the cup and spoon at him, “this one’s yours.” 

The look he’s giving you says _‘you’re a shit liar, but I’ll indulge you.’_ “Sure,” he drawls, taking the yogurt and setting it next to his coffee. He sticks the spoon in it, taking a bite. “It’s good,” he says, looking at you for approval. 

“Uh, yeah,” you reply, opening your own yogurt. Vanilla honey will have to do.

You both eat in silence, the scrape of spoons on plastic cups interrupted only by the crunch of apples. You look over periodically to check on him, and he always looks back, causing you to look away quickly and try not to blush. 

Glancing again, you notice he hasn’t touched his coffee. Silently, you take the cream and sugar from your pocket, placing them on the ground between the two of you. He says nothing. You both finish your breakfast, and you gather up all the trash and take it to the trashcan by the door. 

Sitting back down, you see he’s emptied all the cream and sugar into his coffee. He’s cupping it close to his face and smiling slightly. Your chest fills with warmth and you take a sip of your own coffee. You two sit and watch the sun rise over the walls of the compound. Everything will be ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love ginger beer and ginger ale (specifically red rock). Kid whiskey as I like to call it, since I can't have alcohol. I definitely recommend.  
> Thanks for reading, see y'all next time :)


	4. Hit The Showers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An adrenaline crash with John Wayne.

McCree allowed you to stay in his room while he showered, gesturing to the unmade bed with a, “Make yourself at home,” before disappearing into the bathroom. The sound of the running shower made a soothing background as you explored the cowboy’s room. Old western film posters hung on the walls, headshots of the movie stars sitting below. Small trinkets adorned every surface, from kitschy handmade dolls to ornately carved wooden sculptures. The bed was a pile of traditional Navajo print blankets, thick and well worn. Perching yourself on the edge of the mattress, you spot something sticking out from under the bed and lean down to grab it. 

A left-hand glove. 

A loud thud from the bathroom derails your train of thought. “Fuck!” McCree yells, followed up by more crashing. You hurry over to the door, hand flying to push the open button, but you hesitate, listening for any noise inside. 

“McCree?” There’s no answer, just the hiss of water hitting the tiles. You try again, “Can I come in?” Still no response. Taking a deep breath, your hand inches towards the button. If it all goes wrong you can apologize later, but you need to know he’s ok. The door glides open to reveal the steamy bathroom, a wave of humidity hits you in the face as you walk in. McCree’s sat on the floor of the shower stall, silent tears streaming down his face as the shower stream pelts his chest. The bandages on his arm are soaked, blood seeps through at the end. 

Hurriedly turning the water off, you grab all the towels you see and start to cover him. Draping one over his shoulders and the other over his legs, you start to push the strands of hair plastered to his face out of the way. “Hey,” you coo ducking to look into his eyes. 

“It’s gone,” he hisses, “it’s fucking gone. I can still feel it, even though it’s gone.” Anguish spills from his lips, but he grits his teeth in anger. You don’t know how to respond to that. What does one even say in a situation like this? 

Instead of saying something that may make it worse, you move the towel on his shoulders up and start to dry his hair. He let you, sitting there is a trance. At least the tears have stopped. 

“Come on McCree,” you say once his hair is no longer dripping water, “let’s get those bandages checked out.”

He moves with you sluggish, holding the towel over his crotch with his remaining hand. “You know, now that you’ve seen my dick, you can at least call me Jesse.” His statement startles a laugh out of you, the sound reverberating in the small room. You move him the sit on the toilet, leaning back and avoiding his eyes.

“Well then Jesse, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” you titter in an attempt to raise the mood. He fixes you with a look.

“If this is your idea of pleasure, you need to get out more.” Another bark of laughter escapes you, making you shake your head and look at him like a naughty schoolboy. 

“What am I gonna do with you, huh?” He gives a small, shy smile and shrugs his shoulders. A moment passes before he waves the stub of his arm at you. “Right.” You unwind the bandages, throwing them in the trash as you go and checking for any signs of infection or irritation. Once the sutures are exposed, you squat to get a better look at the damage. “Well, it doesn’t look like you busted your stitches,” you declare, running your finger over the site lightly. “Think you just aggravated it enough to bleed. No big deal, we’ll just wrap it back up and move on. I won’t even tell Dr. Ziegler,” you promise, giving Jesse a wink. He gives you a grateful look and sits still as you rebandage his arm. 

“There, all done,” you straighten up from where you were bent over him. “I trust you can take care of the rest?”

“Yessir,” he affirms, standing up and keeping the towel, blessedly, in place. You nod and leave him to it, going to loiter in the hall outside his room. As soon as you cross the threshold, the adrenaline that had been keeping you going from the moment you saw Jesse sitting in the shower leaves. The sudden crash makes you gasp for breath, the wave of fear and panic unescapable. Fuck, _shit_. You forgot about this part. 

It’s great to be the person that’s there for everyone, takes care, and is soft and calm against the storm. But it sure does take its toll, feeling so much for everyone _all the time_. After any intense _“hey I gotcha, you’re ok”,_ situation, like the one in the bathroom, you crash hard. All those emotions that you push aside to do what needs to be done come back all at once, an overwhelming punch to the face that usually leaves you crying, curled up in a safe place. Under the bed is always a good one. But you can’t do that, not now. You have to stay with Jesse, you can’t leave him alone after that. You don’t know if you can keep it together though, your throat aches deeply in the attempt to hold back tears. 

It was scary seeing him like that. Infamous Jesse McCree of Blackwatch reduced to catatonic tears in the shower, surrounded by _bath products_ he couldn’t even _open._ Those amber eyes looking at nothing, a man haunted and stuck in a memory. The words he said make your stomach turn. _“It’s gone. I can still feel it, even though it’s gone.”_ Was he talking about what made him lose it? Reliving the moment over and over? Stuck in a loop of pain and loss. Or what is phantom limb pain? You’d see it before in your work, the brain so hardwired into sending those signals to a limb it does it even if the limb was gone. These were serious issues, serious trauma. Maybe this assignment is too much, McCree needed real help, not some human teddy bear. 

The hissing of a door opening and clink of spurs hit your ears. Another wave of panic makes you cold all over and burning up all at once. Jesse can’t see you like this, no one sees you like this. 

He starts talking as he approaches you. “Hey uh, Y/N, I want to say thank you. For…that, in there. I was a bit of a mess, like a crazy person or sum’,” he chuckles in a way that reeks of self-deprecation, slimy and cold that slides down your neck, making you feel nauseous. You know that feeling well, and no one should ever feel that, least of all Jesse McCree, salt of the earth. “Felt like a chicken with its head cut off, jus’ runnin’ around with no clue it’s already dead.” _Oh God, please don’t say that_ . “I’ll get it together soon though, just a little off right now. Soon you won’t ever have to worry ‘bout ole Jesse McCree.” _But I want to, please let me worry about you._

He finally walks around to your front, the fact that you kept your back to him the whole conversation apparently not a deterrent for him. The cocky smirk on his lips slips off, his face closing down and eyes going cold. His nostrils flare as he looks you hard in the eyes. Anger? Disgust? You don’t know, trying to gulp past the blockage in your throat and keep your breath from stuttering too much. The tears are a lost cause, welling up to the point where you can’t see at all. You don’t dare blink lest they escape. 

“I’m fine,” you croak airly, though the last word pitches high on a whine and you screw your face up in an attempt to hold everything back. You know it must look something awful and gives you away immediately. Never were a good liar. “It’s just ah, ha,” a laugh that’s more a sob than anything else interrupts you. “Adrenaline crash.” You wave your hand dismissively, looking away and blowing out a breath through pursed lips. “Happens all the time I just uh, don’t usually crash around my charges.” A warm hand cups the back of your neck. 

The look Jesse’s giving you is tender and kind. You let him drag you in, slumping to press your face into his chest. His large, rough hand strokes the back of your hair as he shushes, “S’ok. S’alright. ‘M ok pumpkin, Jesse’s alright. Jus’ lemme take care uh you for a little bit. Don’ gotta be tough all the time.” A sob escapes you, tears soaking his serape. You sniffle, god it’s going to be so embarrassing if you get snot on him. “You’re alright sweet thing,” he whispers, quiet enough that maybe you weren’t supposed to hear it. It makes you hot all over for a different reason, sucking in a gasp. McCree mistakes it for you getting worked up again and moves his arm down, wrapping around your shoulders now. He hushes and coos at you for a while longer, starting to rock the both of you a bit. 

As soon as it came, it’s gone again, a wave of calm and exhaustion crashing through you. Pulling back you take a deep breath, wiping at your face to dispel any shine under your nose. Your face is splotchy as all hell, always gets like this when you cry. You know your nose is swollen too and flushed making you look a bit like a clown. “Honk,” you say, pressing on the tip of your nose. It comes out stuffed up and sad. You cringe immediately, god what did you do that for? McCree huffs fondly, a crooked smile gracing his features once again. 

“C’mon cadet, we’ve both had one hell of a morning. I’m sure they won’t mind us taking over the lounge for some Western marathons. Official business after all,” Jesse winks and starts walking away, whistling a jaunty tune. You blink and jog to catch up, lord this man gives you whiplash. 

He makes sure the coast is clear, waving you into the dim lounge as he fiddles with the projector. You settle into what you think of as “your” nook on one of the couches, pulling your knees up to your chest. Jesse gets the movie set up and walk over to you, unwrapping his serape and holding it out. “Here,” he thrusts it in your face. “Use it as a blanket, or sum,” he trails off, cheeks flushing. You take it from him hesitantly and lay it over your legs. 

“Thanks.” He just nods and sits down next to you, a scant few inches between the two of you. He hooks the toe of his shoe under the coffee table, dragging it towards the couch and setting his feet on top with a sigh. You bat his arm lightly. “Get your spurs off the table, you’ll scratch it. Were you raised in a barn or something?” He looks at you with a smirk. “Don’t answer that,” you threaten, narrowing your eyes. He sighs dramatically and takes his feet off the table and toes off his boots, leaving him in plain red socks.

“Better?”

“Ugliest feet I’ve ever seen,” you retort, turning your nose up at him. He cracks up at that, leaning against you with the force of his laugh.

“That was a good one kid. Maybe I ought to keep ya around,” he says, smiling like a goon.

“Maybe.” You smile back.

Sitting straight again he fidgets with the remote and points to the projection in front of you. “Stagecoach, John Wayne’s first major role and his big break in the acting scene. One of my personal favorites,” he tells you, settling back with his eyes glued to the screen.

You sit back and get comfortable, watching a train glide through the wild countryside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my dad loves western films so I watch a ton growing up, I like to think Jesse and I would get along  
> also I quite literally have no idea what to do next in this story. I have a vague idea of scenes I'd like to happen but how we get there? idk, sooo leave some suggestions, it'll be like a make your own adventure book.


	5. King Edward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to face the music. And not the kind coming from Lúcio's headphones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: ableist language. McCree uses some ableist langue to describe himself.

You wake in your own room again, Jesse declining your offer to set up a cot on his floor. It’s understandable, you’ve only known him for a day, but what a day it was. After your movie marathon, gone was the sullen gruff cowboy who drank whiskey in the dark. In its place was a cocky charmer who joked and laughed like there wasn’t a care in the world. The only problem was, it was a mask. There were moments when the chuckles fell silent and the far-off look returned to McCree’s eye. A grin turned to a grimace or the endless fidgeting turned into a flinch. Things were not at ok as he made them seem, but you’d wait. Chip away at that armor and get to the hurting man underneath, no matter how hard he tried to keep you out.

Breakfast is a boisterous affair, Jesse electing to eat in the mess hall and brave the crowds. Teammates descend upon the two of you like vultures to a corpse, chattering away and crowding in. You note the hard look in his eyes, the way he folds in on himself as people brush against him.

“Alright, that enough,” you declare, raising your voice to be heard over the crowd. “Let the man eat, you can bug him later.” The group disperses, promises to talk later leaving their lips. 

“I can take care of myself you know,” he gripes, but his eyes are thankful. You shrug, giving him an out.

“Yeah but I’m hungry, now hurry up before all the good food’s gone.” The two of you shuffle through the line plates sliding against the metal rails as you survey your options. You keep an eye out for McCree, watch how he handles getting things with one hand, but he manages it fine. No problems to be had until you reach the end, faced with the task of grabbing silverware and drinks. He stands awkwardly, fingers white as he grips the plate and stares hard at the container of forks. 

“Go find us a place to sit,” you say, tilting your head to the tables. “I’ll get the rest, what do want to drink?” He fixes you with a glare.

“Stop doing that,” he growls, brows furrowing as he advances on you. “Stop acting like I’m some fucking invalid. A cripple who can’t do anything for himself. I may not have an arm but I ain’t useless.” He slams down his plate on the counter, snatching up silverware and napkins before grabbing his food again. He storms off towards the tables, leaving you there guilty and embarrassed. A low whistle sounds behind you.

“Yikes, fucked that one up huh?” You turn to see Brigitte giving you a pitying look. You roll your eyes and sigh.

“Thank you for noticing Brigitte,” you groan, shaking your head and gathering up your own silverware.

“Just calling it how I see it,” she continues casually. “Seriously though, don’t baby the man. I know you’re everyone’s baby blanket they bring out of storage when they feel bad, but the man just lost an arm. He doesn’t need a caregiver. He needs some reassurance that this isn’t the end of his life. You treating him like everything’s changed isn’t helpful.” 

You hate to admit it, but she’s right. You have been treating him like a delicate piece of glass that’s prone to break at any second, hell you  _ have _ seen him break, but reminding him of that isn’t what he wants. You can’t baby him until he’s soft and pliant, or force your way in. Jesse has to come to you on his own terms, no matter how long that may take. “You’re right,” you say, filling up a cup with orange juice and turning to look at her again. “Thanks, Brigitte, you’re always helpful. Even if you are a hardass.” She smiles at that and knocks your shoulder, causing your juice to slosh in your cup.

“No problem Pro-Boy, always here to help. I do appreciate payment in baked goods though, like those cinnamon rolls you make,” she says innocently, walking backward towards her own table.

“Yeah yeah, get outta here ya mooch,” you joke, giving her a smile as she gives you a small salute. 

When you get to the table McCree has chosen, you sit a few seats away, knowing he’s not exactly happy with you. Genji appears behind Jesse holding a cup which he sets down beside McCree’s food. The man grunts his appreciation as Genji takes the seat to his right. 

“Goodmorning Agent L/N,” Genji greets, making serene eye contact with you.

“Is it now?” McCree mutters snidely, stabbing at his eggs. 

Ignoring him, you address Genji. “Oh I’m not an agent mister Shimada, I’m just as….person,” you say awkwardly, looking down at your own place and pushing food around.

“And I have told you to call me Genji. Let this be a reminder in giving others the respect they request.” You feel like a chastised child, heat rushing to your cheeks as you nod. Genji clearly isn’t happy with how you’ve been treating Jesse and telling you off through his thinly veiled attempts as subtly. 

“That’s enough Genji,” Jesse nags, not making eye contact with either of you. Genji hums and sits back in his seat, observing the two of you as you eat.

Before the silence can get too awful, Lúcio, Lena, and Hana scurry over and surround you. 

“Good morning love!” Lena exclaims in her usually chipper tone, leaning over to smack a kiss on your cheek. Hana scoots her chair until it’s pressed against yours, crowding into your space with a smile as she takes another bite of her breakfast. 

“Morning Y/N,” Lúcio greets with a smile, music playing softly from the headphones hung on his neck. 

“Good morning everyone,” you respond, peeking at McCree to see him glaring at his plate. You’re about to tell them that this may not be the best time before Hana interrupts you.

“Oh Y/N please tell me you have the weekend off, you promised me you’d come to watch me in my tournament. I can’t do it without you there,” she pouts, clinging to your bicep.

“What? Can’t get anyone else to hand feed you so you don’t have to take your eyes off a screen for eight hours?”

She rolls her eyes. “They don’t last  _ that _ long, you’re being dramatic.” McCree clears his throat loudly, taking a sip of his drink as the table stares at him.

“You ok McCree?” Lena asks, leaning forward in her seat a bit.

“Just peachy.” Is his reply, paired with a painfully fake smile. Genji’s eyes crinkle in amusement. 

Genji stands from the table, “I see. We will discuss this later,” he states, giving McCree an intense look before walking away.

Lucio follows his form with furrowed brows. “What was that about?”

“Who knows, all you Blackwatch guys are so mysterious and vague. I bet you do it on purpose,” Lena declares, slurping her tea loudly as she looks at McCree. 

“Yes, that’s it exactly,” he grumbles hunching over his plate. 

“Leave him alone, he’s trying to eat,” you admonish before internally cringing. Dammit, he told you not to do that. Luckily he doesn’t comment on it and Lena turns her attention back as you. The four of you chat while McCree eats in silence, each person polishing off their plate in quick succession. They eventually bid you goodbye, demands to hang out again soon sent your way. You sigh deeply and try to relax your shoulders from their tensed-up state. It’s not that you don’t love them, they’re just quite an energetic group, which can be exhausting first thing in the morning. Not to mention your row with McCree...speaking of which… You turn to him, opening your mouth to speak, but he gets up from the table, dishes stacked on his plate as he trudges towards the dish drop off. 

You follow him at a slower pace, dropping your own dishes onto the conveyer belt to be washed. Leaving the mess hall, you find him leaning against the wall, sole of one boot pressed against it, and head down the classic cowboy silhouette. He turns to look at you from under the brim of his hat. It strikes you how gorgeous he is, smoldering and displeased as he is. You shake yourself out of it, “Listen McCree I’m...I’m really sorry can we just? Can we talk about it? Please?” You fidget as he continues to stare at you before he sighs and pushes off the wall. 

“Yeah,” he relents, “c’mon, follow me.” 

You trail behind him as he leads the two of you to the shooting range. He pulls out a cigar and lights it, inhaling deeply. 

“My granddad smoked cigars,” you blurt, immediately regretting it. 

He blows out the smoke in one long stream, not looking at you. “Did he now?” He asks, clearly uninterested.

“Yeah, King Edwards I think.” The silence strains between you. “Jesse, I’m sorry,” you sigh. “I fucked up and I know it. I am, was treating you like you couldn’t take care of yourself. You clearly  _ can _ still do everything for yourself. Hell, you get in that ridiculous belt and cape every morning with no problem.” He huffs, taking another drag. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m some caregiver they assigned to you because you got hurt, I don’t want to be that. I’m just...a friend I guess. Someone here if you ever need anything, and if you never need me that’s fine too. Going forward please call me out. If I’m being overbearing, tell me to fuck off. I could use that once in a while. So uh, yeah I guess. I don’t expect you to forgive me or anything I just, want to say sorry.” A moment passes, McCree sighs heavily and shakes his head.

“First of all, it's not a _cape_ it's a serape. But alright, I’ll take it. You seem gutted enough and it’s really gonna tank my image if you follow me around pouting all the time.” You open your mouth to argue that you  _ do not pout _ but cut yourself off when you see the small smirk on his lips as he looks at you through his lashes. 

You scoff and roll your eye good-naturedly. “Well, then I’ll start treating you like the pain in my ass you are.” You give him a light cuff to the shoulder.

He looks at you incredulously. “You’re gonna hit the cripple?” He askes, mock-shocked. 

“Oh my god!” Throw your head back in a laugh as you grab his bicep and shake him a little. “I can’t stand you. I can’t wait for this week to be over,” you joke back, smiling so he knows you don’t really mean it. He grins around the cigar clamped in his teeth and leans into you gently.  _ Yeah, _ you think  _ things will be ok.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short one. My mental health has taken a hit recently and it affecting my school work so I've been working extra hard to make up assignments and haven't had time to write. Once I get in a more stable place I'll pick it up again, thank you for your patience.


End file.
